


The Loneliest Of Fates

by TheStoryDancer



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alcohol/Drug Abuse of a Child, Alternate Universe - Canon, Dark, Dubious Consent, Gen, Homelessness, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Loneliness, Non Explicit Sex between Strangers, Non Explicit Sex between a Prostitute and Client, Non-Explicit Sex, Prostitution, War Trauma, awfully lot of tags for a very short story, descriptions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStoryDancer/pseuds/TheStoryDancer
Summary: The city of Camelot is a prosperous one, yet the fate of the King of Camelot is a lonely one. And so might have become the fate of some others.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Canon era story, but it has very little to do with the original story of Merlin.  
> Obviously I own none of the characters or other features of Merlin nor am I making any profit with this.  
> Do make sure you read the tags and be forewarned, this is a bit depressing.  
> I hope I got the tags right, this is my first story. I tried to get all of the triggers in the tags but do point out if you think I should add some.

An old man stands up slowly, his knees cracking and a grey, thread bare cloak slipping. He has to leave this street, the guards would soon come and make sure all unwanted people would leave. Since the pace his old legs could carry him wasn't fast enough for them and he didn't fancy being pushed and kicked around tonight, he thought it best to leave in advance. 

He begins his slow, hobbling journey towards the next street corner with a vacant expression, the one he had worn for years. Like most men in the city, he had gone to war, several in fact. He had gone for his love, his home, for his King, his friend. But for him, the war had never ended. 

His eyes still saw nothing but the blood and flesh, torn and broken bodies he could not save. Never did fade the cries of the children who died in agony no matter what he did, the screams of men as he tore their bodies to heal them, only to see them die instead. The stench of blood, dirt and decay surrounded him wherever he went and his hands could not stop moving, endlessly bandaging, sewing and healing, all in vain. 

When they said that the war had ended, he had come back with the others, he had returned to home. But his love wasn't there, forced to flee by another war, his friend saw him but he never recognized his friend, his King no longer cared. He never found his way back home, but wandered aimlessly seeking what was forever lost. 

He passes a garbage bin and steps to look if there is anything to eat. By passers looks at him with a revolt. A dirty old man, covered only by a thin tunic of undefined colour, stained by various bodily fluids and a cloak that might have been once red. Long, possibly white, tangled hair hanging over drawn, heavily lined face. A hunched figure moving with an unsteady limp. Why should they care. 

The old man continues his way, cold and hungry, unaware of all except the nightmare inside his mind. Walking has become painful but there is nowhere to rest, he is always driven away. Lost and unwanted. 

\------------- 

A young man with blond hair and blue eyes stands in the dark, leaning to wall behind an outhouse of a pitiful tavern. His once red, well made clothes has long since faded and frayed. His father kicked him out some time ago, after he found out about his son's lover. The look of shame and disgust on his fathers face was the one he saw on the face of all he encountered, the taunts and scorns yelled at him were etched to his very being. With no where to go and a profound understanding that he was a useless, disgusting creature he had ended up here. Yet he was the lucky one, his love, he had been killed on the spot. 

He worked in this tavern, his job was to make sure the unavoidable tavern brawls wouldn't take too long or break anything valuable. He hated it, but more he hated the fact he was out here dispite having a proper job. He didn't have to be here, he didn't do it so he could live for another day, no one paid him to stand here, why anyone should. He was weak enough to be here willingly. 

A man comes, gives the young man a cold look and goes to the outhouse. The young man deflates, out of disappointment or relief, who could tell. Then comes another, looking just as nervous and disgusted by himself as he does. 

There is no introduction, nothing at all is said, just a violent kiss and hands fumbling with the clothes of the other. Despite the heat of another body, the arousal it provokes, it's all cold, ugly, emotionless. It isn't what he wants. For it is but a twisted shadow of a love he wants, of what he had in the warm embrace of his loved one. 

But that all is dead and gone, as it should be, as he isn't a proper human worthy of love. He is a vile thing bred by filth and muck. A body of a stranger and the detestation of community is all his has, all his lot deserves. 

\------------ 

A young woman with raven hair and painted skin looks at a man with a smirk on her red lips and a void in her eyes. She leads him in to her small room and starts to take away her cheap, decorated clothes. The man follows suit, obviously eager. 

She could hardly remember why she had left. Just that she had been scared for her life, scared in her own home. She had fled in the dead of the night with nothing but what she had on her. And that was what she had ended up selling, mad with hunger and fear. 

Her smirk doesn't falter as the man lays his hands on her. It's frozen on her face. At first it had hurt, she had been afraid of what was happening, of what she had agreed to. She had used to think with a morbid fascination what those who used to know her would think if they saw her now. But no one had sawn her and the once familiar faces had lost their meanings. 

Now she remembers only the fear she used to feel, and the fact there was no home to go. It is easy now to keep her eyes empty, for her once fierce emotions are but a faint memory now. Every man had taken a piece of her with them, until there was no more pieces left for her. No more broken shreds to fill an emptiness. No more tiers to show she felt. 

The man lowers himself on her with a grunt and she yields. Her body moving along with his like puppet in strings. The man never understands that he is wanting an empty shell with features painted on porcelain. He kisses the lips of the beautiful corpse. 

\-------------- 

A boy with untidy black hair dreams of death and fire. There are screams, the smell of burning wood and flesh and the fear and running, away, away from home. The boy starts awake and looks dully around him. He is in an attic of a tavern. He got there along the rooftops and through a broken window. No one knew he was there. And, if he was lucky no one would for some time. 

Bottles of ale litter the floor. All empty, he would have to go and steal more. And perhaps some food as well. But the food wasn't a necessity, there was never enough of it anyway. He could still remember the first time he had tasted ale. He had just arrived to the city and he had been lost, cold and hungry, some drunkard had felt pity for a starving street kid and had given him the bottom of his bottle. It had burned his mouth like the fire that ate his mother, but it had made him warm and after few more sips he had almost forgotten the gnawing hunger. It had helped him to forget great many things since. 

The boy no longer remembers his mother, how she looked or what she sounded like. He only remembers her screams as she burned along with the world. Neither did he remember his own name or how old he was, those things didn't matter. Yet the only thing he had wanted to forget was the surge of power, the warmth of his eyes flashing golden, because that had made the men to come and burn his home. And he had, only a distant but unceasing voice talking in his dreams remained. 

His hands tremble slightly as he climbs out of the window, its been hours since his last drink. He moves across the roofs walking clumsily but with the stealth of practice. Sunken, dull blue eyes scan the streets as he drops down to the pavement. No one pays attention on the under fed child as he slips around houses stealing what he can. Finally he returns to his place in the attic, carrying three bottles of ale, some food and even some herbs suppose to be even more effective than alcohol. 

Perhaps together they are enough to make his nightmares stop for good. 

\------------- 

The King Uther of Camelot stands at window of his chamber gazing down at his prosperous kingdom. Yet, for him it seems empty. For to build that kingdom he have had to sacrifice all he had ever held dear. It was the cruel fate of a king, surely there is no other fate as lonely. 

And so, with cold eyes and colder heart the King turns away from his window.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was heavily inspired by a song of an Finnish artist Hector, Kuinka voit väittää (että yksinäin oot) which apparently is a translation of Ralph McTell's song the Streets of London. The lyrics are a bit different but they have both have the same pretty powerful message.


End file.
